By Starlight
by Lirazel
Summary: “There is no day anymore.” The Order fights on, searching for hope anywhere it may be found. postHBP vignette


By Starlight

"There is no day anymore." The Order fights on, searching for hope anywhere it may be found. postHBP vignette

This poured out of me in about two hours last Monday night, and I've been tinkering with it ever since. It means a lot to me, and I hope you find something worthwhile in it.

Note: The piece of music Parvati plays is "The Heart Asks Pleasure First" from _The Piano_ soundtrack by Michael Nyman. I highly recommend it; it's one of the most gorgeous and heartbreaking pieces you'll ever hear.

_Disclaimer: _Harry Potter _and its characters, settings, and anything else you recognize do not belong to me. I am making no money off of this piece._

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"_Far above the Ephel Duath in the West the night-sky was still dim and pale. There, peeping among the cloud-wrack above a dark tor high in the mountains, Sam saw a white star twinkle for a while. The beauty of it smote his heart, as he looked up out of the forsaken land, and courage returned to him. For like a shaft, clear and cold, the thought pierced him that in the end, the Shadow was only a small and passing thing; there was light and high beauty forever beyond its reach."_

"_The Land of Shadow_," The Return of the King,_ J.R.R. Tolkien_

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There is no day anymore. The darkness of evil's lust for domination has covered the sky, the midnight punctuated only by the occasional bursting forth of a Dark Mark, flaring sick and green on the horizon, and never by starlight, moonlight, dawn.

He heard somewhere in the once-upon-a-time of Before, that in certain parts of the world, close to the poles, the sun does not rise for months when winter comes. Of course, when summer dawns, the endless day is not broken by night. Somehow he doubts that if ever this battle is won that the sun will always shine, to even out these months (centuries) of darkness.

He finds himself, at the oddest times and places, wondering what the Muggles think about the darkness. Is it a sign of the Apocalypse to them, or have the governments concocted some "scientific" explanation, using the media to feed it to the petrified masses? Or can the Muggles even see it? Perhaps it only affects the magical world, though somehow he can't believe that.

And thinking about Muggles leads him to thoughts of the Dursleys. He had always believed, as long as he can remember, that the second he got away from them for good, he would not spare a single backwards glance for them. After the way they treated him, for years and years, he truly believed that he would completely forget that they had ever existed.

But they intrude upon his thoughts more and more often. There had been a flash in Aunt Petunia's eyes just as he walked out the door that reminded him, only for the second or third time in his life, that she was his mother's sister. And he cannot help but long for the simplicity of his problems then: hand-me-down clothes eight sizes too big, Dudley's bullying, cleaning up after the piggish boy, containing his temper around those horrible people so as not to get his wand taken away again, waiting miserably for the return of fall and Hogwarts.

As he leans his aching back against the wall and runs fingers through sooty hair—Ginny found five silver strands today and pulled them out—he finds himself longing for the cold, clinical neatness of the house on Privet Drive—anything but this bombed-out, half-standing house. There are three and a half walls to this room—he thinks it was once a ballroom; it's large—and bits of a ceiling still in place and a sweeping staircase leading up to nowhere. It is full of mingled mud and ash, and the once-marble floor is buckled, cracked and covered with grime. Parvati found an almost-destroyed grand piano this morning—morning by the clock, of course, since there was no daylight anymore—when they arrived, a chandelier crashed into the lid, birds nesting inside. She shooed them away and started pounding out a tune on the keys, ignoring that they were out of tune and that several stuck. It was a melancholy, haunting piece that made his heart ache, but she seemed able release some of her pain through the music, and he would never deny her that now. Not with the way she never giggles—her laughing partner is gone—anymore, but sits silently next to Seamus, bolt upright and dry-eyed.

The Irishman's eyes always seem swimming with tears that never fall, now, and Harry cannot look at the other man and his heartbreak for guilt that while he, Harry, still has Ginny, Lavender was stolen away from Seamus in the first battle.

But she redeemed herself for her incessant giggling and the pain Hermione went through Sixth Year—and then some, a redemption much deeper than the magnitude of her faults, so deep he can barely think about it—dying like a heroine, bright-eyed and calmly staring evil and death in the face. Every look Seamus gives Ron now is one of loathing, but everyone, including Ron, understands: he resents the time Ron had with her, even if it meant nothing, and that Ron has Hermione while he has lost the woman he loves. And Hermione herself, wonderful, compassionate Hermione, understands, too, when Ron mourns the other woman: he is more mourning that he took from her and used her and never really knew her and now she is gone than mourning the loss of someone he loved.

But Seamus and Parvati never talk about her, and neither does Dean, lying with them by the piano. Harry cannot look at his former dorm-mate anymore for fear that he'll see that the boy—man—has finally tumbled over the edge of sanity: all his family killed before his eyes because he was a half-blood; Harry wonders how he hasn't been drive crazy by grief already.

He wonders, too, with a touch of bitter humor, what Dudley would look like over by the stairs with Neville and Luna and Colin Creevy, talking quietly about Blibbering Humdingers and Crumple-Horned Snorkacks and a million other things that don't matter ("Shoes and ships and ceiling-wax and cabbages and kings," Hermione quotes softly) _because_ they don't matter when everything else matters far too much. The picture is a preposterous one: Dudley's selfish greed beside Colin's quiet trust and Luna's unwavering faith and Neville's boundless courage. But they would accept him, as they accept everyone, even if he could never, ever dream of being worthy of them.

And Aunt Petunia could never sit calm and waiting by Professors McGonagall and Trelawney nearby, going over reports once more and mapping out the land. She would hover, flit to and fro nervously, wringing her hands, and McGonagall—Minerva, now—would snap, and she would scurry off. Harry appreciates her terse competence more now than ever before; she's become a female Dumbledore of sorts, endless reserves of backbone and knowledge, if without the touch of whimsy humor. And he never thought he'd see Sybil as anything less than kooky, but she is no longer ridiculous or dramatic, retreating into quiet work.

Harry knows, too, that Uncle Vernon could never squat with the men across the fire from him, girth and plumpness and pleased-with-himself-ness never fitting in with undernourishment and weary dedication and battle-scarred bodies. Remus just got in an hour or two ago, bringing with him the hastily-scribbled messages Minerva and Sybil are now poring over. He looks more like a wolf than ever: leaner, greyer, sadder, with a slightly rabid look in his eyes that has been there since Tonks fell. The last of the House of Black now that Narcissa hung herself in her own ballroom—except for Draco, though no one's heard from him in months, or cares. The last, and she fell with a twinkle in her eyes and a loving, awkward joke on her lips for Remus, taking almost twenty Death Eaters with her. One of the greatest women Harry's ever known. He misses her.

He can see the weary defeat in the slope of Remus' shoulders from here, and he refuses to meet the glazed eyes—the full moon is much harder on him now. Mr. Weasley—Arthur—and Bill are not much better. Arthur looks as though part of him is missing, and Bill keeps reaching out as though expecting Fleur to be there. But the two women are in hiding with the Grangers; where, only a few know. Harry never thought he'd see the day they'd allow themselves to be left behind, but Fleur would never put the baby in her womb in danger, and Molly knew, even if she wouldn't admit it, that she was useless without her wand arm. Harry hadn't been there when Arthur and Bill told them that they had to stay behind, but Ron had, and he told the story as soon as he got back, teasing forth the first—and last—laughter in months: Molly and Fleur gesticulating wildly (Molly with one hand), their voices crisscrossing, complementing, but Molly's shrill demands fighting for dominance with Fleur's half-French, heavily-accented protests. He smiles a wry, barely-there smile to think of it.

But he thinks of the rest of the Weasleys, and wonders for the millionth time how fate can be so cruel, sadistic, torturous to the best, most loyal people he's ever known. He hates a world that allows it. Percy, lost to them forever so long ago. Charlie, gone back to Romania after a too-brief visit to bring back the dragons to fight for the light. But that was months ago, and no word at all, and everyone but Ron and Molly—the two most stubborn of the most stubborn family in the world—have given up hope.

And then there's George, alone, masked in shadows, and there is nothing in the world so wrong as the lines etched into his lost, lost face, and the fact that Fred, his other half, is not there beside him. Joking to the end, running into he midst of the Eaters that had Angelina cornered, laughing, screaming like a Banshee, with a new invention that saved Angelina—now hiding with her mother- and sister-in-law—but robbed him of his own life. Nothing breaks Harry's heart like watching George wander around in a daze, turning as though assuming that his twin is right behind him, or huddled in the darkness, jerking away from Ginny's gentle hand on his shoulder, ignoring Ron's soft words.

Ron, who, with Hermione, is beside him, Harry, where they always, always have been. Hermione's asleep—finally; the shadows under her eyes are beginning to dominate her face, and the pinched look of her features scares him to death. It amazes him every day, though, the way the life they now live has softened her. Not made her weaker, for she is stronger than ever, and she's always been one of the strongest people he knows. Instead, the war seems to have softened her around the edges. She almost never loses her temper or nags over little things. Besides, there isn't time to be concerned with rules and expectations. Instead, she is always ready to listen, to use her talented brain and the knowledge she's been storing away for years to help the Order. He is so proud of her; she's everything a woman should be: strong, gentle, graceful, determined, winsome, loyal. She's grown into her talents, her character, herself.

She's leaning on Ron, of course; these days they're never so far away from each other that they can't hold hands. But there is nothing in the slightest mushy or sappy or annoying in that way only couples can be about them. Everyone watches them with slightly wistful looks, glad that they've finally figured it all out, looks that those two don't even notice, so wrapped up are they in each other and the everyday fight of it all. Harry doesn't think that they had some sort of talk about this shift in their relationship—all of this was already there under the surface, anyways—or even had a massive row. He really doesn't even think words of any sort were exchanged, just that after Dumbledore's funeral they unconsciously decided that self-consciousness and pride were too trivial to get in the way of things. It's probably best that way—words always had gotten those two in trouble, and maybe in their maturity they've put all that behind them.

It's strange to think of "mature" and Ron in the same thought, though as he watches his best friend, he can't deny it. The absent way that the hand of the arm he's wrapped around Hermione is playing with her hair is something that awkward, self-effacing Ron Weasley of the Burrow and Hogwarts would never attempt. But his eyes, staring off into the distance with a look of mingled blankness and longing and weariness and despair that Harry can't reconcile with Ron his best friend, are most definitely the eyes of Ron Weasley, the warrior, loyal knight and true. The mind Hermione always knew was lurking behind the redhead's apathy has finally emerged, and Ron's thoughts, when not clearly on Hermione, are always caught up with strategy and thinking three steps ahead. He talks like an adult, now, and his face and whole body has gone from lank to gaunt in a way that stirs guilt in Harry.

Merlin, he admires his friends, stepping up to face and fight darkness, forgetting things like N.E.W.T.S. and Quidditch and bickering so easily and slipping into the role of protectors and defenders as though they were made for it.

But more and more often he misses, with an ache he recognizes as yearning for anything and everything that has been lost from Before, the petty bickering, teasing and fiery and so _them_, that always, always let him know that everything was alright in the world, just for the moment. They never fight anymore, never tease, never argue. When Ron says something stupid or brusque—much rarer now, which Harry never thought would happen—Hermione doesn't snap or roll her eyes, but places a gentle hand on his arm and whispers his name, and he crumples, pulling her to him and burying his face in her hair. And when she nags a little too much, worried about his meal portions—too small—or now warm he dresses—not warm enough—Ron doesn't explode or call her Mum, but takes another potato or shrugs on another sweater.

They barely talk or look at each other during the missions of the day, but their body language says so clearly that each knows that the other is there that no one can miss it. And at night, they sit together in front of the fire in whatever shelter the Order has found for the night, heads bent close, talking softly for hours. They never talked softly before. And sometimes, when Hermione is talking to someone else or caught up in reading reports or gleaning more information from dusty tomes, he catches Ron gazing at her with eyes so yearning and scared and happy and protective and tragic and haunted that he has to turn away before he breaks down completely at seeing this side of Ron—_Ron_, with the emotional range of a teaspoon. And when Ron falls asleep with his head in her lap, late into the night, the tender way Hermione brushes his hair away from his pale, scarred face and watches his chest rise and fall is so intimate and beautiful that he thanks whatever powers there might be for this reminder of love in the world.

The only reminder, except for Ginny. In a world without sun, moon, or stars, she is all three, the only light he has. Steady and bright love, never wavering or waning, never demanding, always giving. He's thought he's lost her at least a half a dozen times, though the last was the worst—gone for days before Bill discovered her bound and gagged in the dungeon of the empty Malfoy house. In his fury, he dispensed of the four Death Eaters guarding her and carried her poor Cruciatus-wracked body for miles back to headquarters, depositing her in Harry's arms. Harry held her for hours and hours, whispering nonsense words of comfort and love, refusing to leave her side for days. She's so beautiful here, now, in the firelight, despite her shorn copper locks and the scar that mars her from temple to collarbone on her left side.

She's so _strong_, recovering quickly, his strong right hand, soothing and compassionate to all, the only one who attempts jokes anymore, the one who runs errands no one else wants and settles arguments and thinks logically when he's ready to act out of fury or grief.

Sometimes he remembers that she's supposed to be only a girl, and he feels wave after wave of guilt knowing _he_'s the one who put her through all the pain. But she is a woman now, one he's so incredibly unworthy of, but so grateful for that his thanks fills him to the brim. She loves him, and he her, totally, completely, blindly.

He sees now that he was foolish to try to protect her by keeping her from the fight, to try to shelter her from darkness. It's inescapable, anyways, and to try to keep her from standing up to it, from shining her light, would be like trapping a bird in a cage: a sin, for birds are made to fly.

He knows he could never carry on without her beside him, could never shoulder the burdens that have been thrust upon him without her strength. He's never thought of himself as a leader, despite everything. But there's no escaping it now. None. They all look to him to make decisions, to know which course is best; they offer advice but trust his choices, going, without complaint, on whatever mission he assigns them to. He could not do it, of course, without Remus' and Minerva's wisdom, without Arthur's and Bill's experience, without Hermione's knowledge, without Ron's strategic sight and loyalty, without Ginny's love. But ultimately, the decisions are his, and it is the heaviest burden in the world. He shoulders it because he must, because no one else can. No one but him alone.

Sometimes he feels outside of it all, isolated, as they move headquarters from here to here, as he sends friends and allies out on missions he—and they—know will kill them. The months stretch long and tense and harsh, and they wander through a world of mud and ash, barely speaking, communicating through instinct and understanding and eyes. The war drags on and on, eternal, it seems, and everyone he loves is weary and hopeless and scarred and frightened. Every scar on every beloved face, every limp, every hoarse voice, every sigh, every sob, every explosion of angry despair is like an ache in his heart, a link in the chain of guilt that binds him always.

He sometimes hopes he will die in the last battle, after defeating Voldemort—if he can; he never takes for granted anymore that he _will_—because he is so busy burning himself as fuel to keep the fires of resistance lit that he is sure there will be nothing left of him in the end.

But then there is Ginny, and Ron and Hermione, and the others in this sort-of room (his family), and all the others in the other almost-rooms of this house, and scattered across Britain and the world on innumerable suicide missions. He must carry on for them. Must live for them, love for them, be willing to die for them.

Must make the right decisions for them now, which is hardest of all. Because there will be a battle tomorrow, he knows as he watches the onyx sky. Not _the _Battle, not yet, but _a_ battle, a big one, and who knows how many more will be lost. He is diminished with each death. They all are. He is so very weary and full of despair, and not sure he can rise at the dawn-that-is-not-dawn and face it. Not sure of anything anymore, but the love of the people around him, his fellow warriors.

Ginny squeezes his hand suddenly, so tight that he almost cries out. "Harry! Look!"

Her voice is loud in the still, cold air, and everyone seems to hear, going still and raising their eyes. Hermione jerks awake, and Ron wraps his arms around her. Remus and Bill rise beside Arthur to look, and Harry hears Luna and Neville and Colin moving to join Parvati and Seamus and Dean. Sybil whispers something to Minerva, and even George seems shaken from his veil of darkness for a moment.

Ginny does not notice. Her face is lifted upwards to the sky, rapt, with as much awe shining in her eyes as in her voice. "Harry! It's a star."

He looks up—they all look up. And see hope.


End file.
